Don't fight the thunder when it comes,
let go your brick and brush.
Sop up the graying clouds with
every bit of lung, step
away from your paint.

Your labor
has always been in vain.

Surrender your body to the wind,
trust its wings, trust its landing.
Watch closely
come the tearing of the torrents,
don't be afraid
of what washes ashore.

Allow every strike of lightning,
let your bones shake themselves brittle.
You will not die.
You will not die.

Breathe in the roaring waves,
slowly sink to its depths.
Avoid the struggle if you can,
and let it be so.
Let it be so.

And when all has billowed over,
keep open your eyes
keep open your fists
and know that all this
is where spring begins.

It starts
with a warmth, like
fingers spreading thick in my belly
slowly making its way up, up, up
tickling my throat and
warming every inch of this body until
there’s nothing I can do to stop
my lips from parting
my hands from raising
my feet from dancing

How beautiful You are.

Joy.
I feel it radiate, it seems to
vibrate from a well that’s deeper
than I’ve ever known
leaving me without words
and when I find them, they
dance.
The words
dance.
And I feel fire.
My heart swells,
and my bones breathe.
So this
is what it means
to be in love.
And I am so
in love.

How beautiful You are.

Here
I
am.
Walls torn down
pride crumbling
dry and broken
but I know
You’ll still draw me in, so here
I am
standing stunned at…
How do I begin to describe You?
You
whose lips burst forth light
and carved out mountains with precision
set the earth’s cornerstone in position
shut snowstorms in their storehouses
fastened galaxies in their places
You who
breathed out
morning stars.

How beautiful You are.

The sun sets, sinking
in colors of warm honey and
tangerine
I feel You smiling down
on me, and You whisper,
“Child, this one’s for you.”

How beautiful You are.

And my mind just can’t wrap itself around You
and how You
command the clouds to roll like the sea
guiding lightning as it strikes soft earth
and how You
are so much bigger
than I could ever understand
but still are mindful
of man, how
great You are in
perfect faithfulness.

There is no end
to Your love, and if I
were to live and die
a thousand times, and if
the heavens fell
and the seas swallowed up the earth
and the sun stopped rising in the east
and the birds ceased their morning songs
still Your love would
endure
And Your grace
which goes beyond my shame,
I’ve run out of similes and metaphors
to describe how vast
and amazing is this grace
You have that never seems to
run dry no matter how far I run
no matter how hard I fall
no matter how stone-like my heart’s become
Your grace carries me
telling me I’m still Yours.
And I
am forever Yours.

How beautiful You are.

Savior,
Your heart bled at the sight of us
longing for a way to close the gap
millenniums of our pitiful good works
couldn’t close.
Merciful,
in promising to never again
wipe out the face of the earth despite our
stubborn souls sinning the same sins,
saying sorry while we slipped
blood money into our back pockets, we
don’t
deserve
anything.
Yet You
gave
Your
everything.

Overcomer,
Death itself couldn’t keep You prisoner
I still can’t imagine how
Someone like You would
willingly lay His life down
for someone
like me, and I fall to my knees
remembering how
on the cross You
crucified my sins
in the grave You
buried my past
at last
we are free
we are redeemed
we are Your children,
chosen and forgiven
waiting until You
come again.

And if I come to You
before You come to me
and I’ll be running
finally
straight into Your arms,
I don’t know if I’ll even have the
breath to say,

“How beautiful
You are.”

You are so much more than a pair of green eyes.
Your heart is golden but sometimes your thoughts dull its shine.
It might take some rain and maybe even a thunderstorm, but I promise you,
It will be worth far more than the pain
to see you
see for the first time.
And you are nearing that day.

Brother,
For the days we have known each other,
I have come to the conclusion that there
Is something wrong with your eyes, because
Where you see brokenness, I see strength
Holding all your pieces together.
Where you see scars, I see tattoos of triumph,
Stories of how you fought,
Stories of how you lived each battle through.
Where you see ugly, I see beauty in places
You refuse to turn your head to, why
Won’t you turn your head to see
How I see you?
See, you have seen far too many hellos
And even more goodbyes to believe
That I am here to stay.
And I
Am here to stay.

Brother, my hands are here to catch
Whatever falls out of your storms.
I myself have been a storm far too many times
To run away when your rains start to pour.
My feet are ready to come chasing after you
When you stray too far away from home,
And as long as there is breath in my lungs
I swear I will never let you stay lost.
Because I
Am here to stay.

Till the day the world runs out of will to spin one more round,
Till the day the waves stop running back to shore,
Till the day mother and father and sister and brother forget each other’s faces,
Till the day of judgment,
Till the day of blood and trial,
Till the day of denial,
I will stay.
I will stay.
I will stay.

hold me when the river runs
don't let go.
watch it wind,
see me sink.

hold me when the river runs
to wherever it can't wait to be
rushing, roaring, rigid flowing
sudden stops -- please,
give me warnings

hold me when it all floats up,
when the bones pierce through,
when the gold is birthed,
when my palms fail to release,
when they fail to keep.

hold me when the river runs
don't.
let go.
I'll learn to follow echoes.

I am oatmeal with
two tablespoons of sugar topped with
a strawberry freshly sliced, thin enough to
slip between my lips and slide
down my throat
without me having to chew
I am trying my best not to spit out seeds.

I am a pair of faded shorts
a charcoal cotton sweater
an ugly red scarf and a pair of
frayed black Toms, but
sometimes I am a vintage dress
or camouflage pants, and
some days I am a string of pearls
I am still trying to find the perfect shoes.

I am a Philippine history book
repeating the same mistakes
refusing to learn from those who
now kiss cool marble
but there are days when I take
three steps forward where
I see they took one step back.
I am trying to scrape off towers to read the letters
our grandfathers wrote in the dirt.

I am a missing pencil
that drew lines and traced figures
under the bed and wrote
stories of empty seats being filled
and now that the fountain pens have dried up
I've been found.
I am scared, but I am giving until my lead runs out.

I am a fervent prayer
longing for redemption to win
and for the fighting to end
please, I just want to see
hearts beating to the rhythm of
the stars being breathed into place
I am hope,
or I am trying to be, I am
trying to be a lot of other things still
testing, still throwing, still keeping.

But most of all, I am still
the choices I make and
maybe tomorrow I'll have
some rice and tapa
and a lightly salted sunny side up
instead of oatmeal and I promise,
I won't be spitting out any seeds.

you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)

she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)

if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)

if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.

if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)

when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,


"how to tell if she is a poetess"

she’s not allowed to care anymore
but she can’t help the dent
that became a valley
before she was able to recognize and trace
every sharp edge and every flat surface
every sudden drop and slow crack
with her fingertips, covering
it will take time
but the real question is
will
she
try?

Four fingers.

One
for the time I
walked in circles,
unsure if the long walk would be
worth it.

Two
for the people I met --
long live the brief moment
I had to plant something in you.

Three
for the best ***** ice cream
I ever had;
combining cheese with strawberry
and avocado was a beautiful decision,
Manong.

Four
for the empty stone chambers.
I am here.
One day I will fill you
with wayward ones come home.

It was once
A never-ending-everlasting
forever-staying-never-breaking
never-sna­pping-never-changing
thick as maple syrup fresh from the tree
long enough to tie up the galaxies together
TWICE
this was the hope I had.

I threw it around you
the seventh time we met,
and I tied one end to your left ankle
and the other end to the space in my heart that I had
saved just for you
I didn't know I was saving it for you.

Because I had no idea
that I would end up caring this much.
That I would write poems about you until three in the morning
and turn those poems into songs
only to forget the melody.

That you would be the reason
for my curled up legs sitting in the corner
and the floor a sea.
My floor is still a sea.

And no one warned me
that you would be the root of this
black tree that is thriving inside my head
despite the dull axe that thumps all day long
yet produces
only bruises
no scratches
I have enough of those,
because apparently the consequence of love
is pain.

And I know a lot about pain.
My hands will be red and blistered for an eternity
from the rope burns you gave me, because
every time you strayed,
I would tug
and then you'd stay.
But your pulls got harder
and your left ankle stronger...
so did mine.
I learned to stop picking at fresh wounds
to let them callous instead
my hands are as thick as a bear
and I've got you to thank for that.

I thought
that you would never stray again
after that nasty big cut you got on your forehead
from wandering too far
you crept up the edge of the cliff
inch by inch
but you crept too far.
You returned with that cut and
swore you'd stay yet
now your wound is reopening
and your big toes are already off the cliff
and this rope I tied around you
this once massive rope
this once massive hope
is now
a stringy little thread.

My hands are shaking and
my wrists are bleeding
but I'm still holding on.
Because my real hope
is anchored to something
much stronger than the both of us.

Could it be that, for every year since
the day you stopped knocking

I have noiselessly slid in
a stopper, a stone, a slipper

Mistaking your reaching for the key
as a challenge, not a warning?

I've patted myself on the back
for making it out (but with a foot by the corner)

Just in case you one day decide to swing wide
and that I'm worth a thank you, come again.

This hour last week, we kissed the stars alive.
With you, there were no walls and no far seas,
No reason to doubt or to just survive,
My heart was with you, and yours was with me.

How cruel the souls of the gods above,
That they should mind our paths and our crossing,
That we should be the ones who fell in love,
A fate that led to a war-torn ending.

This hour last week, we danced to life the moon,
But we forgot that seasons come and go,
And now the red sun bleeds-- it bled too soon.
We can no longer love; I am the foe.

You hold your people's hate in your strong hands,
You shake and the gun sings of God's near land.

Tell me once more that my faith is blinding,
and I will show you the shadows
that have stayed by my side all these days,
recite to you every word
Fear has whispered in my sleep,
point out every drop of rain, yet

my eyes will still gleam with the dawn I see
breaking behind the clouds.

Did you know that love is a tangible thing?
I felt its warmth in your touch
saw it spill from the corners of your eyes
to the apples of your cheeks
if you continue to love the way you do,
Indz jan,
you will shake strongholds.

i am a keeper
a hider
never a seeker

your thoughts
your secrets
the things you hoard
the way you are
i know.
i know them all.

don’t you worry,
i will keep them
hide them
and no one
will find them.

i am
strong and sturdy
dark as night
a firewall made
to conceal and
protect.

i will keep them
safe,
this i promise.
but, really,
how safe
your secrets will be
is
up
to
you.

she slips in silently
seeking sanctuary, and
every step is a prayer.

step.
father, forgive me for I have sinned.
step.
father, forgive me for I have...
step.
deaf god, dead god.

too many horizons hold his heart
he is hardened and headstrong, yet
every step is a prayer.

right.
father? forgive me for?
left.
father, forgive me for...
right.
deaf god, dead god.

we won't wake to weeping
walking with our veils pulled tight
over eyes, and we know it. maybe
every step is a prayer.

clack.
father, forgive me.
thump.
father, forgive --
creak.
father?
stop.
do you hear me?
one.
deaf god
stomp.
dead god
three.
father?
do you hear me?

My father came home                                                             ­                                                             
wit­h a tube of blue                                                             ­                                                                 ­                    
for me.                                                              ­                                                                 ­                             
Dark as half-past midnight,                                                        ­                                                                
but when purified,                                                        ­                          
as clear as the sky  
and babies' bright eyes.                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                           
I warmed it between my                                                               ­                   
welcoming palms,                                                           ­                       
marveling at the thick, round                                                          
tube that, when squeezed, would come                                                  
opaque oceans                                                           ­                                                 
dazzling eyes                                                             ­                                   
mermaid hair                                                             ­                                 
and dragon scales.                                                          ­                        
                                        ­                                                                 ­                   
Yet this same wonder
held
monster claws
Yeti fur
vampire skin
and hot ice.

It was so
dangerously beautiful
my hands hesitated
to curl its delicate fingers
around this mysterious magic.
But then, I remembered,
I hadn’t unscrewed it.

So, consider this:    
There is a pthalo
to every robin's egg,
An indigo
to every turquoise.
Consider this:
Even the most righteous fall.
Trust no one.
Make no friends.
Love none except yourself.
Never dream.
Never dare.
This ode has just taught you
how to
live life
a sealed
tube of blue.

I smell the miso soup and curry
though its bowl's contents
have been long licked away
I see you when I look at her
Her eyes that wander and eyes that sigh
longing for you as I do.
Maybe even more.

She waits and speaks and fights.
I wonder if she wants to be with you yet
I hope not, because I need her still but
I need you, too.
It's selfish, but I am speaking my mind.

The pain I felt
three weeks ago when I remembered you was physical
My breath came in short puffs
and the tears pricked and the leaves swayed
as I looked out the ***** window.
Maybe I was expecting you to swoop down, hug me,
and tell me you were sorry
for leaving so soon.
So, so soon.

It's time to go, so I touch the small of her back lightly
and help her into the car
something you used to do.
I am not angry.
But it hurts.
Knowing that you never saw me dance
or play the piano
or walk up the stage to receive my diploma
Knowing that I'll never be Princess Aurora
and you'll never be Prince Philip or the dragon again
Knowing that as long as the sun rises and the moon smiles
I'll still be here
without you

I love her.
Know that.
So for you, Lolo*, I'll take care of her as well as I can
because I know it will make you smile
and that will make me smile too but I still miss you
and it still hurts sometimes.

sharp and deadly
strong and steely
its grip as firm as iron
catastrophic cutters
bloodthirsty biters
menacing,
threatening,
never building up
always tearing
d
       o
       w
n
jaws relentlessly
endlessly
mercilessly
slicing
snipping
shearing
vict­ims,
two from one
beware before it’s too l

they stole it!
mama cried.
it was a gift from Lolo.

we tried to comfort her
with our rough touch and
awkward hugs but
the tears rolled
and mama lay still.

then the baby came in
Lolo, Lolo,
he gurgled.
you want to see Lolo?
let's go visit Lolo,
mama said.

the baby will never see Lolo.
i cried.

Somewhere stuck between the line bordering
faith and reality,
there is a girl.

A girl to whom
there is no such thing
as five thirty in the morning.
There are only beginnings,
fresh grass, and
mugs of hot chocolate.
She doesn’t seem to know
what it means to drag your feet
or to
lifelessly slide your toothbrush’s bristles
against the cracks and crevices of your teeth,
wishing you were already at the end of the day
when it had only just begun.

To her,
every printed word is spoken.
She can hear the pages breathe and her heart sings whenever
another character enters,
because for her it means
one more person
to love
which is something
she never seems to run out of.

It is why her eyes dance
and roses grow ‘round her face,
it is why gladness
pours out from her fingers as they
glide across ivory keys,
it is why she sprinkles her words with salt,
why she refuses to let her city on a hill grow dim,
why she believes that death
is a new beginning,
why her hope never wavers,
why she won’t stop giving and
giving and
giving.

Her faith shakes mountains, but sometimes,
only the mountains know it because she
gets frustrated, too.
I’m here to tell her that she
may not see it now,
but the seeds have been growing in places
she didn’t think possible.

So continue to plant them
with thrill and with wonder,
as you live each day like
it was the first.
Don’t stop the water’s flow,
and soon you will find yourself
laughing at Doubt’s face,
I don’t think you’ve ever seen
Doubt’s face.

You’ve been alive
for three hundred
and sixty five days more,
but if growing up means
losing the fireworks in your eyes
and the beautiful thoughts
that sprout from your mind
then,
I beg of you,

don’t.

There's something I need to get off my chest, Liz. Something I've been keeping from you for years. I was cleaning out my closet the other day, and I realized something. The painful thing about phone calls is that every sleepy groan could have been heard clearly if I were with him, and every word he spoke only to me could have been whispered into my collarbone. But what really infuriates me... is that the first person who got to love him didn't stay. Love is staying.

You have no idea how long I've stayed.

"What I'm trying to say is..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm in love with..."

Me?

"Her."

"Oh."

You see, the honest truth is that you're perfect for each other and that I wanted this to happen. When I watch how he lightly touches the small of your back as if he's afraid you'll shatter if he holds you too hard, and how your fingers comb his past out of his hair when you run them through gently, I wonder if your hearts are actually one but were separated at birth. I don't know, I might be lying, but I don't think I am. I don't think I am. All I know is that he was always yours and never mine---I don't know why I hold on, because you're everything he needs. But somehow, so am I.

Loving him and watching him love you has gotten me nowhere except everywhere I never wanted to be. I don't hate you for this. Really. All I ever wanted was for both of you to know what it feels like to have wings on your ankles and morning songs on your earlobes, because that's how I feel when he asks me to help him make playlists for you. I just imagine he's making them for me.

So instead of poisoning myself with hate, I'll teach you how to love him better. I need you to love him better.

Sing him to sleep and sing him awake. There is nothing he wants more than to rise and drift off knowing that he'll be safe in the voice of someone he loves. Sing him songs about mountains. He'll love that.

Bike to the riverside with him and bring nothing with you but a hand-stitched quilt a pen. Find a spot where the wind never stops dancing. Write stories on the leaves and the trees so that he'll know that he has a place to call home after you. You can name that spot if you want, but I know he'll name it after your favorite flower.

When he cries and his past comes creeping in, clutching his throat and burning his chest, don't say anything. Just hold him. Hold him and hold him. Wait until he's stopped shaking then, with your nose buried in his hair, whisper, "I still love you."

Maybe I should write all of this down, seal it in a mint green envelope, and mail it to myself. Then I'll read it out loud and will probably be crying my heart out but at least I'll be stronger.

But don't worry, I won't say anything to him, because I care about you, too. So I'll stay still. Even though I'd like to take a bus to his house right now and leave a post card under his front door with a poem saying that I've loved him a long time. Longer than I should have. But I won't.

Because I know that he doesn't have the strength to catch me.

Even though the rhythm
of your footsteps has left
in my mind echoes resounding,
I did not so much as flinch
when I heard you breathing
in between beats.

I'm sorry for shuddering, but
blood has boiled
my nerves numb
muddied everything I see
dried out my tongue
and though I launder
your shirts every week,

I still don't know what you smell like.

let’s watch whales together
let’s catch stars together
let’s collect jars together
let’s put our dreams in those jars together
let’s write poems together
let’s play with foxes together
let’s sail together
let’s count asteroids together
let’s save penguins together
let’s read books together
let’s sing together
let’s eat Poptarts together
let’s paint together
let’s talk about elephants riding unicycles together
let’s listen to the willows whisper together
let’s cry of laughter together
let’s ride horses together
let’s discover the beauty in hidden places together
let’s build contraptions together
let’s get lost together
let’s live with different tribes together
let’s…
together

fshooooo

whispering wind

lazy leaves


hmmm

sighing sun

buzzing bees


shhhh

roots relaxing

bored branches


click clack*

toes tapping

blowing breeze

I took it and
swallowed my aches down with
three cubes of sugary smiles while
digging up six feet of dirt
shoving it in without a proper funeral, but
now it's come back.

I like the color of your sweater and the stripes on your sleeves and I especially like how the ends fray and the gray looks more like milk than it does a rainy day sky or a weatherbeaten road.

2. The reason I stepped back was not because you smelled funny, or that I was shocked to find you there, but because the air condition was hitting me right on the shoulders and I left my red sweater at home.

3. Okay, so maybe I was a bit shocked at finding you there; it’s just that you’re the first one who’s ever bothered lingering at the poetry section besides me, and I’m not good with surprises; in fact, I hate surprises.

4. But you’re a good kind of surprise.

5. I like your glasses. I used to have a pair just like them before someone removed them and told me that I should learn to see differently. Things have been kind of unclear since then, but I’m learning how to hold onto the side rails.

6. I hope you’ll let me remove yours, too.

7. Your hair looks like a bird’s nest. I wonder if you’re hiding life or pieces of green bottle in there. That’s a lovely shade of brown, by the way. I’ve never seen chocolate curls before.

8. Do you think that if a pine wants to, it will grow until its branches poke holes in the sky for stars and pinecones to fall out so we can catch them in our palms and compare who got the most scratches and who caught the most stardust?

9. The book you picked up happens to be my favorite. If you turn to page 118 you’ll find a poem about churning seas, angry thunderclouds, and a drifting boat that lost its sail.

10. I think I finally found my sail.

do not let the
      scorching and searing
                                    the
      burning and blistering


                      the
           slow sawing and
                      the
           bough breaking

          
                      turn your roots
                
                                   upward,
away from the
                                   waters.

Every time I look you in the eye, I see thunderclouds. Yes, your laugh is silver bells on a spring day and your smile could have caused Mona Lisa to grin all the way in, but they’re right. Your eyes are the behind the scenes and your body is a movie. I don’t enjoy watching movies.

2. I can’t keep up with the storyline. Chapters fifteen and sixteen were about homecomings, and now the main character’s digging his own grave again. You never explained to me how he went from dancing in the moonlight to rubbing ash on his head, just when I thought we were getting already to the ******.

3. The wounds are reopening. I thought you knew better than to pick at the stitches.

4. Your heart must be handcuffed to mine. I feel it every time you hurt, every time you pull, every time you cry out and ask God, “Why?” The only difference is that every inch you move away is a sucker punch in my gut. I’ve never had a high tolerance for pain.

5. Do you know how many poems I’ve written about you? Try walking outside at night and count every street lamp from here to the opposite side of the sea. My words burn too, but they never seem to be bright enough for you to see. You’re still tripping in broad daylight.

6. I’m tired of standing behind you.

7. Hope is an anchor, but I’m starting to drown.

8. Sometimes I scream in frustration because the seeds are taking too long to grow. It’s so easy to forget that they will. It’s even easier to forget that I’m not the savior. But I try to be, so I’m putting down this yoke, little by little.

9. Seeds do grow and their trees make enough rings to tell stories to last generations.

10. I heard in a song that love alone is worth the fight. Maybe I’ll continue this battle long enough for you to see that we’ve already won this war, so that the next time I look at you in the eye, I’ll see the northern lights.

I want to hear
the rush of angels and
hearts beating fast to the sound of
redemption and revival, know that

there is a so that you can
attached to every do not
it's just that no one stayed long enough
for the sentence to finish. See how

glory is piercing the witching hour, so
come, restless ones,
lie by the streams and drift into
the song of lions and new wineskins.

There is a rising.
A rising.
Please start arising.
Arising.
Today we're arising.

as you lay in the mountain pass
breaths in heavy, choking gasps
trees bleeding
restless, reckless head throbbing
tell me


who did you see?

it's nearer than we think.
we swear under our breaths
and see blisters before they form, but
we just need to pick our feet up
and start
walking.

Look at the stars.
See how they never cease to
glow even on the darkest nights.

Be like those stars, child.

Look at the moon.
See how though it has no
light of its own it
refuses to leave you without bringing you some
light in the dark.

Be like the moon, child.
But most of all,

May you have the joy of your mother, for
her smile can light up a million black suns
and her laugh
can warm
even the coldest heart.

May you have her loathing for evil and
despise injustice like she does.
I hope you'll take up a sword and
fight for the truth alongside her, for
she fears no one
except
the only One who should be feared.

May you have the strength of your father
and walk with integrity like he does.
May you have his humble spirit,
his patient heart,
and his strong arm.

May you aim for excellence,
and shoot your arrows
straight and true.
I hope you learn to walk on waters
with a faith like your father's, and never
ever
look at
the threatening waves.

Look at the sky, child.
No, higher
       higher
       higher
because more than any other
I pray that you'll be


just like your Father.

He hates sunrise
because the lovely pale glow of each ray
is a beautiful dagger pointed straight at his heart
the tip an inch away
from drawing the life out of him
you are the life in him
and he hates you so.

He hates anchors
because they don’t let
even the biggest ships glide along the waters as they please
and you don’t let him glide along as he pleases
you are his anchor
and he hates you so.

He hates the wind
because without it
he would have no direction
no strength to move on
you are
and you aren’t his wind
and he hates you so.

I have watched him
sail the hardest seas
cut through the roughest waters
brave the wildest winds
but you…
he doesn’t know how to deal
with the pain of missing you.

It is numbing to stare at the ground,
seeing nothing but my own weatherbeaten ankles
each footprint evidence of steps half-taken
in between neckbreaking pausing
to squint at starless skies.

But where there is water,
there is life
and maybe, just maybe,
maps are of no use here.

it's not safe where you're going, I
whisper to the pregnant woman carrying her
grocery bags walking
towards the railways, she
probably knows, but
she probably doesn't, and if she doesn't, how would she?

the ones who know never speak up.

fast, sharp and deadly
watch out for its biting jaws
victims cut in half

They say it depends where you're from
as long as you don't miss the meat,
(sometimes I prefer pork)
soy sauce and vinegar,
garlic (as much as you can peel)
bay leaves (a couple, maybe) and
peppercorns.

They like to tell me where I'm from
as long as they smell the added sugar,
the occasional potatoes, the mix of
chicken and pork. And through my teeth,
I tell them that there is nothing that different
about me.

Look, if you leave me tomorrow,
I will first go
to your side of the bed and
lie there.
I  will fit my body into the shape of yours
whose frail form has already been imprinted in the thin mattress.
I will place my palm where yours once was and I will memorize every rise and
every fall of your body
every curve
every straight line
every aching vertebrae that you never complained of
every stitch you never told me about
because you are stronger than anyone I know.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will throw open your dusty cabinet doors
bury my face in your clothes
and I will smell your smell.
What is your smell?
I will smell you and pretend that
I'm burying my face
in you

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will die.
I will die.
I will die.
Maybe not all of me,
but a chunk that's half times two of me, that's for sure.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will run out of the house
and visit that pile of debris overlooking the sickening city
my sanctuary
after you
and I will ache.
I will ache.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will grab my pen
and write down everything about you
from the way your hair falls to the way you never, ever said
"I love you."
and that's okay because I will write about the way
you loved me with your fingers
with your slanted eyes
with your lifted brow
I will write because I am scared that I will forget
the little things that make you you.
your precision
your perfectionist ways
your scientific mind
your slow, strong stride
the way you tap the jar when the coffee's almost gone
because you hate wasting things and
I will remember that and hate the way
I am wasting.
I will create another you in my mind
one that
won't
leave me tomorrow.

I swear, if you leave me tomorrow, I'll...

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

I don't remember when, exactly,
But
I do remember it was during those hours
When the sun stretches and spreads it soft light over the sky,
kissing the grass and brushing its golden fingertips over the rooftops;
During the hours when the cool wind gently blows on your face,
telling you it's time to be alive again.

It was at that time I remembered,
A rare moment, really,
Since memories are so easily forgotten just as they are made.
They search every nook and cranny,
Looking for a place
To stay
And stay forever,
Maybe.

On that morning,
Everything came back.
Eyes widened
Mind whirled
And heart stirred
At a memory
I never knew existed.
A memory that had found its way home

I remembered, clearly,
Wind so crisp and cold
The air snapped with the chill.
I remembered, clearly,
Leaves wrapped in dresses of scarlet and gold,
Dancing in the breeze.
I remembered, clearly,
Carpets, soft under my toes,

warm in color and warm in feel.
I remembered, clearly,
Roads blanketed in white
And the earth's heartbeat, slow and steady, asleep soundly.

But the memory ended too soon,
For the taste had passed.
I shoveled in spoonful after spoonful of oatmeal,
sweetened with powdered milk and brown sugar,
Hoping the familiar flavor would come back,
So I could remember again.
Memory's a funny thing,
Because it left its home,
Opened the door,
And traveled down the road.
Never to return again,
Maybe.

For now,
I will try my best to remember.
For who knows?
Memory's a funny thing.
I might even find
The fresh smell of spring and the taste of steamed pilmeni again
In a nice, warm bowl of oatmeal.

today there was nothing on the table
cutlery, yes
plates, yes
my mug with handpainted rabbits, yes
but today there was nothing on the table.
in your haste to impress the
distinguished guest, don't forget
the need to exhale.

Have I lost
Myself?

Are these
Lies?
Or are they
Just
The ugly truth?

Have I lost myself?

These names
These labels
These choking
Judgments they have cast on me

They must be true.

Liar.
Idiot.
Thief.
Coward.
Traitor.
*****.

These names
Are my names.
My labels.
Me.

They define me.
They make me who I am.
These names.
They
Are
Me.

They tell me.
All day long
Without fail
That
I
Am

Worthless.
Friendless.
Hopeless.

Unloved.
Impure.

They tell me
That I cannot do
Anything.

That I’m worth nothing.
That everything is impossible
Because
Just because
I’m me.


They must be right.
These words
Ring in my ears
Constantly.

Each syllable
Beats in my head
Like a never
Ending
Drum.

I remember when
I was so alive.

I remember----

Wait.

No.

No.

No.

No.

I was made for so much more.

These names may have defined me.
These names may have hurt me.
These names may have brought me down.
These names may have crushed me.

But He will

Redefine

Me.

Allow me
To redefine
Me.

I am

Priceless.
Fearless.

I am

A new creation.
The new has come.
Those names will not define me.
They cannot
Define me.

I am

Chosen.
Loved.
Pure.

Made new
In an image so amazing
With a fire in my spirit ever blazing

None can compare.

Watch me
Spread my wings
And escape the clutches
Of the dominion of darkness

Watch me
Do things
You  thought
And told me I’d never be able to do

Watch me rise up again
Watch me transform
Watch me defeat the enemy
Watch me prove
Watch me prove.
You.
Wrong.

I have a new spirit.
A new heart.
Which was once stone,
Has melted into flesh.

For I will no longer
Conform to the pattern

My past cannot hold me
In its dark chambers anymore

For I will look ahead
Above the skyline
Beyond the horizon
And reach a place
That is unimaginable

I now lay down
The things
I thought
Defined me

And allow those things
To be
Thrown
As far as the east is from the west

Gone is condemnation.
Gone is the past.
Gone are the old wineskins.
Gone are those names.
The lies.
The words of the people
Who want to steal
****
And
Destroy
Me.

I know that
I’ve fallen short of the glory,
But

I have been remade.
I have been reborn.
I have been redeemed.

I have entered the Kingdom.

I have been

Redefined.

slowed and swayed

and shyed away

like a little lamb unsure

whether to nibble from a human hand

or not

so i(t)…

did not

hot milk + white sugar + chocolate powder + cinnamon +
vanilla powder + a glazed doughnut + white moustache +
stars in his eyes + gray sweater with a tiger that used to be mine
+ hay-like, unwashed hair + corn kernel teeth +
crocodile crocs + carrying that pack of Monopoly Deal cards
even though no one wants to play with you and you're
disappointed but cheer up soon after + the queer shape
of your pink lips + your hands and the way you use
them + gurgling laugh which sounds quite gross but it's
actually really cute + finely shaped ears + soft earlobes
that I like to rub between my thumb and
forefinger + questions + more questions + even more questions +
the way you plant a soft wet goodnight kiss on my
cheek each and every night except for the nights I
come home late, opening the door, turning on your yellow
lamp looking at your small dreaming body wishing you'd
forever stay my brother who makes Christmas in a cup.